Unto the Haunted
by Geale
Summary: It begins and it ends in fifth year, but without Death there can be no life. During the hunt for the Horcruxes Harry receives news he is not sure he can believe. And even if he does, it was never easy. Sirius!returns. Harry/Sirius. Observe: SLASH, underage (15/36), godson/godfather, angst, allusion to minor and major character deaths, death themes in general. (But! Happy ending)
1. Succumb

**Summary:** It begins and it ends in fifth year, but without Death there can be no life. During the hunt for the Horcruxes Harry receives news he is not sure he can believe. And even if he does, it was never easy.

 **Pairing:** Harry/Sirius

 **Rating:** M

 **Warnings:** SLASH. Underage (15/36), godson/godfather, angst, allusion to minor and major character deaths, death themes in general.

 **Disclaimer:** The world of Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling.

 **A/N:** This is a bit of a new format for me. We will have some time jumps and some chapters will be longer than others. In total there will be seven chapters and I'm planning weekly updates. Also – fair warning – this gets pretty dark in places but (spoiler!) I promise a happy ending. Finally, I hope you will enjoy it.

 **Unto the Haunted**

 **Chapter one – Succumb**

Later, when he will try to conjure the memory of those initial, agonising minutes before it finally happened, the first thing he will remember is that little glass figurine in the shape of a unicorn. Of all things! He will lie in his bed in his Hogwarts dormitory with his curtains firmly jerked closed around him and think back. He will let himself drift back to that afternoon and the first image that will pop into his head will be of that unicorn, sparkling like running water. Like clear quartz.

But right now, Harry is standing in the doorway to the old study in number twelve, Grimmauld Place, wondering if he will ever survive this.

"Muggles believe in them, too," says Sirius.

He has followed Harry's gaze to the figurine. The cold January light breaks into the windows and cuts through the glass, making an entirely new splash of light underneath the unicorn's hooves.

"Not all Muggles," says Harry. He is pretty sure Uncle Vernon does not believe in unicorns. Aunt Petunia might (seeing as her sister was a witch) but if she does that is not something she is likely to ever tell another living soul.

"Their loss." It comes out somewhat flat.

Harry hesitates on the threshold. Sirius is over by the window, the massive wooden desk separating them. His godfather is pale and his grey eyes are on Harry now, intent. He is watchful, Harry realises. Leaning back just a little. Not giving in.

So it is Harry who takes a step closer and it brings him over the threshold and into the study. He can see it now: the tension in Sirius' shoulders, the rigidity in his frame.

He knows, just as Harry does. That this is it.

In three days' time Harry and Ron and Hermione will be leaving for Hogwarts and most likely a new onslaught of decrees and stupid rules that Umbridge will use to torment all the students she hates. Hogwarts is not the place he once knew.

"Harry…" It is a clear warning. Sirius' voice sounds a bit tight.

They lock eyes. From the stairs, or the landing below, comes a thud and there is the sound of voices. As if Hermione and one of the Weasleys have decided that now is the moment to come to the rescue. Because, really, it is. Now would be the perfect time to stop whatever is going to happen from happening. And then they – Harry and Sirius, that is – can pretend that nothing at all is going on.

Harry closes the door. It shuts out the voices and if the air in the dank study had been moving before it now comes to a complete standstill. Sirius looks as if he wants to say something but he only manages a wince.

He is very handsome, Harry thinks. He is wearing a plum-coloured, button-down shirt and black trousers, and his dark hair falls in soft waves around his face. He is unshaven and tingles speed through Harry's stomach as he imagines touching those cheeks. It is not something he ever thought he particularly would want to do but over the past couple of weeks he has had a hard time dismissing the idea.

Above Sirius' head, a garland of evergreens is looped around the curtain rod. All in all, barring the attack on Mr Weasley and the fear that stirred up, this has been the best Christmas of Harry's life.

He takes another step and something moves over Sirius' face. Fear, perhaps? Anticipation?

"Harry…" Strangled, this time. Sirius licks his lips. "Don't."

But he has to. At the very least he has to try. He cannot _not_ try.

Sirius, valiantly, makes a new attempt. "You don't know what you're doing."

That much is certainly true – Harry has absolutely no idea how to go about these things. It is just that Sirius has spent the entire Christmas break with his eyes fixed on Harry and sometimes his lips slightly parted. He has been looking in a way no respectable thirty-something-nearing-forty-year-old godfather should be looking at his fifteen-year-old godson and it has been making things to Harry that he does not know how to think about without blushing.

That is why they are here now, with no more than three short days until school starts and with Harry closing the distance between them.

"Don't you want this, Sirius?"

It is probably a little bit unfair.

The older man looks pained. Haunted, almost. "It doesn't matter what I want, Harry. It's wrong."

"I don't care."

" _Everyone_ else will care."

"I don't care about that either."

Harry circles the desk and so comes to stand face to face with his godfather. Through the grimy window he can see a corner of Grimmauld Place and the bare, greyish-brown bushes in the shoddy square. He prefers to look at Sirius.

His godfather is several inches taller, with lines around his eyes. He has high cheekbones and a chiselled chin. In Harry's presence he seems unable to keep his shirts buttoned all the way up to the collar.

They are close now, simply staring at each other. Harry has chosen his jeans with care. They were once Dudley's (of course) but not too ill-fitting. They sort of hang on his hips but he reckons that might be a good thing right now. His t-shirt is old as well, and perhaps half a size too small. By the way Sirius' grey eyes burn into him he suspects that is not a problem.

That gaze, however, makes his throat go dry.

"If we do this…" His godfather keeps his voice down. Like that, it becomes a rasp that smooths itself over the bare skin of Harry's arms, making him shiver. Sirius leans in just the slightest. "There's no going back."

Harry nods, not really knowing how to tell him that he never would want to go back. That he never wants to live a life without Sirius. In fact, he can almost _feel_ the way the world is tilting a little sideways. How he is actively choosing to change everything.

Sirius' face is very hard to read. There is a twitch that really has nothing to do with a smile in the corner of his lips. Then, to a _whoosh_ through Harry's stomach the other man, too, nods, but grimly almost. "I'll take you upstairs."

"No." Harry cannot say precisely why he refuses. Probably, because he is afraid that climbing several flights of stairs will give Sirius time enough to change his mind. "Here. I want it here."

His godfather's eyes go a little wide and a furrow appears between his dark brows. "Harry..." He sounds shocked. "What do you mean?"

As if he does not understand.

"I don't want to go upstairs."

Harry does not have to look at the desk, Sirius does it for him. He is even paler now, tense around the jaw and mouth. "We can't," he says, sounding like he's forcing the words out. " _I_ can't."

"But you want to." He hopes. He's pretty sure he _knows_ but that frown in his godfather's face is still firmly in place.

Sirius opens his mouth but then closes it again. He licks his lips. He swallows. "What I want, Harry," he finally rasps out, "is not important."

But it is. Besides, this is all Sirius' fault to begin with. It is he who started it by ogling Harry as if he has become edible since they last saw each other.

Harry does not want to debate this, go into morals and ethics and list loads of reasons for why this would be a terrible thing. He just wants it to happen.

"It is, though," he says, and takes one more, small step closer. They could touch now, if they wanted to. "Do it."

Sirius' eyes are on him, sharp and bright. He is still hesitating, and his breathing looks rather shallow and light. Like his breaths are flimsy and almost unnecessary. Then his hand lands on Harry's hip. His thumb slides under the washed-out fabric of his t-shirt and finds skin. Slowly, he rubs a circle into it, waking it up, making that slow pounding in Harry's body that he has started to associate with Sirius come alive.

The silence around them is thick. Harry looks down at the way his godfather is touching him, then up again, into his lined face. "I know you've done it before," he says, quietly.

He does. At the very beginning of the holidays he climbed the stairs to get Sirius for another round of Wizard's Chess but when he reached the fourth floor landing he had heard voices sifting out from Sirius' bedroom. The door was ajar and the warm glow of firelight spilled out into the gloom at Harry's feet. They were just inside the door, poring over an old photograph, from the looks of it, both of them too immersed to notice Harry in the shadows.

Lupin was repeatedly tapping the picture with an index finger, as if pondering something. His voice was unusually merry. For him it was only a simple question, for Harry it changed everything:

' _Was that the night you shagged him?'_

Sirius had not looked affronted. Nor did he look surprised or confused or shocked. No, Sirius' reply had been a grin, and one unlike any other grin that Harry had ever seen him fire off before. And he had looked… _proud._

Now, Harry watches his face again. "At least once before," he continues. "I overheard you and Lupin."

Sirius winces again. His lips half-form words that never come. He frowns. "Harry…" His voice sounds ragged and breathless at the same time. "It's… It's the only thing I've _ever_ done." Again, he swallows. "I mean, I've only been with men. Harry, I'm gay. I should have told you. Sooner. Maybe. I don't know." He is looking very much as if saying all of this is actually causing him physical pain.

Harry nods. Not because he agrees with that last part but because it is the confirmation that he needed. "It's OK."

"Yes," says Sirius, a little stronger now. Somewhat firmer. "But this is not. This is wrong."

"But you want it." They are still touching. Harry covers his godfather's hand with his. "I want it, too."

Sirius lets out a groan. It comes as a surprise to them both, apparently, for a flush of colour invades Sirius' cheeks and he briefly closes his eyes.

"Please?"

"It'll hurt."

Harry smiles. He smiles until Sirius' other hand comes to cup his cheek and drag a thumb over his lower lip. Until that hand works its way into his hair to hold the back of his head. Before him, Sirius lifts his chin a little, as if testing him. As if he wants to know if Harry can handle this.

Of course he can. They both know it. He has been through worse.

Sirius hesitates for another second – perhaps in a futile bid for redemption – but then, _finally_ , the fight is over.

Their first kiss sets the tone.

Harry loses his breath long before the midpoint, already when his godfather's mouth opens on his and his tongue moves into his mouth. Both of Sirius' hands are in his hair now and he angles Harry's head so that the kiss deepens and deepens and deepens until stars flicker at the edges of Harry's vision. He moves his tongue back and forth against Harry's and when he tires of that, he takes to nibble at Harry's lower lip before he sucks it into his mouth with devious intent, and perhaps some desperation, too. It makes Harry moan and place his hands on Sirius' hips, quite instinctively. His godfather growls, rather, and lets go of Harry's mouth so that he can kiss his way down his throat. He uses his teeth, even, to rasp against the skin and he leaves little marks and memories there. His breathing is hot and deep.

Harry holds on to him, barely feeling the floor under his feet. His head is swimming. All of their own accord, his hands find their way underneath Sirius' shirt and he shivers as he touches bare skin. Sirius' hair tickles his cheek, Sirius' scent is all around him and his blood is coming to a boil.

"Off."

When his godfather pulls back, he looks changed. His pupils are blown. He looks wild. He is tugging at Harry's t-shirt. "Off," he says again. It comes out in a low growl.

Relieved that his brain is still functioning, Harry obeys, working the t-shirt over his head without dislodging his glasses in the process. A hardness crashes into Sirius' face as he drinks Harry in, but he is too far gone at his point; he is already on the road to wherever they will end up and any reminder that his godson is not yet of age lacks the power to stop him now.

He lifts a hand to Harry's chest and his fingertips dance over one dark nipple. Then he cups Harry's shoulder and spins him around so that he ends up with his back to Sirius' chest.

"Now…" he purrs into Harry's hair, into his ear, "we begin."

He steps up so close that Harry can feel the hardness against his arse. He can feel Sirius' cock. The realisation hits him like a jinx but is infinitely better. When his godfather grinds his hips against him he cannot help his groan and Sirius' chuckle is dark upon his skin. A wet tongue tip traces the shell of his ear and teeth nibble at his earlobe. It would be enough to make him melt into a puddle on the study floor.

Sirius' arms come around his waist and suddenly he is unbuttoning Harry's jeans. His hand dives into them before Harry has time to say a word and for the first time ever another person is feeling him up. Sirius' hand, with its long, calloused fingers, is palming him and making him squirm. Warmth is flooding him, pushing at him, tearing at him and still Sirius' hand moves over him, never minding that Harry's briefs are still covering him up. His godfather's breathing is ragged now, harsh in his hair but his lips leave kisses on Harry's neck. He works them both towards the desk, silently urging Harry to lean against it, with the edge digging into his thighs.

It does not matter. His jeans are halfway down his thighs now anyway and his pants are following and then Sirius is touching him properly – taking Harry's prick in his hand and stroking – and Harry mostly thinks he will throw up because apparently that is how his body wants to handle this.

It is warm and dry and Sirius' strokes clear the head of his cock from the foreskin. Harry plants his hands on the desk and screws his eyes shut as he tries to deal with every single impulse. Sirius plasters himself to his back, the buttons of his shirt pressing into Harry's skin like a string of small pools of coolness until they warm up and the sensation is lost to him. His godfather coaxes moans from him and liquid, too, from his prick and the friction as it is smeared over him is addictive.

"Do you want me, Harry?" The question rasps itself over Harry so deliciously that he actually whines.

And he nods, frantically.

Heat twists within as Sirius slides a hand between them and Harry feels it on his naked arse and then… Then Sirius' hard cock – and God he feels big – springs up to press into his backside.

"More?"

Always more.

Sirius does magic – quite literally – and causes Harry to choke on a gasp as he feels himself open. Sirius has slicked himself too – or at least Conjured some type of lubrication for there is wetness where his cock nudges at Harry's cleft.

Harry drops his head. Sirius drops another kiss to his neck. Then he bites down. It is not hard but it sends a jolt of lightning through Harry all the same. Sirius pushes and it is done.

It is like flying. Probably. Maybe. Or like something else Harry once upon a time had never tried but now knows he can never live without. Sirius is so deep inside that he can feel his pounding cock from within. His arms threaten to give up and so do his lungs. Sirius pulls out just enough to be able to plunge back in again, as soon as possible. As if his godfather could not live without this either. His hand is still working Harry's cock, now in time with his thrusts, and it makes all the difference: on Sirius' fourth stroke since he breached Harry, Harry comes all over the ancient desk. He does it on a groan that completely empties his lungs and which tears through his throat like air on a really cold day. Though he is far from cold. In fact, he is burning up, exploding, transforming.

Sirius milks him until the end, his mouth on Harry's neck and cheek and wherever else he can reach. Then he moves both his hands to Harry's hips and begins to thrust in earnest. The desk comes up to meet them and Harry clings to it desperately. Sirius is everywhere, in every place, all at once. He is claiming Harry as though – a silly thought – he would ever consider being anyone else's. Sirius has him bent over, splayed and open. It is the best thing.

Outside, for the first time that Christmas, snow begins to fall.

 **TBC**


	2. Crave

Here we are again. Drop me a line and tell me what you think!

 **Chapter two – Crave**

Keeping secrets is hard. At least when it comes to this kind of secret. It does not help that Sirius proves to be absolutely terrible at being discreet either: his hand, which is planted in the small of Harry's back as they enter the basement kitchen together that night for supper, slides to hold his waist as the door closes behind them. His eyes, when Harry looks into them, are hungry, he thinks. And that would not be for the roast chicken Kreacher is just putting down before them.

Mrs Weasley's mouth is a thin line and there are angry red blotches spattered all over her cheeks. A muscle jumps in her jaw when Sirius, casual as you please, guides Harry deeper into the kitchen. There is complete silence.

Lupin, for his part, stares stubbornly at his plate, in case you are wondering. He is looking as though he would prefer to melt into the wall behind him.

Harry is hungry for actual food but when he catches his godfather's eye as the latter reluctantly lets go of him to allow him to sit, that hunger is smashed into dust. Sirius is looking at Harry as if he would have no problem taking him over this table as well – in this very moment. This realisation is enough to chase the air from Harry's lungs and replace it with hard iron. Which, interestingly enough, is not as uncomfortable a feeling as it sounds. Not when Sirius' grey gaze keeps washing over him and promises things that Harry has no name for yet. It does make him blush, however, at which his godfather gives a small smirk.

Ron and Hermione enter together. Perhaps they already know (meaning, that is, that Hermione has already figured it out, has even possibly suspected something before) or it is too obvious to miss and misunderstand for they keep calm as they sit down. When Harry meets Ron's eye, though, he understands that there will come a time for explanations and the telling of secrets. Harry would rather not keep anything from Ron, if they both can handle it.

The silence is shattered as Fred and George enter with Ginny and if they do not at once put two and two together that is understandable. As the twins' presence spins the energy in the room a little higher and conversation gradually picks up around the table, Harry finds he can eat and does so, too, with quite a bit of enthusiasm.

Sirius eats at a much more leisurely pace, taking his time, spearing the peas with his fork in twos. Harry glances at him now and then: he is having a hard time not staring, truth be told, because Sirius is the most entrancing person he has ever met, and he has met Veelas. His godfather is looking rather relaxed at the table, and he even quips back when Fred throws a gibe his way. And when he slides Harry such an intimate smile that it should probably be prohibited, Harry's heart does funny things. It does not matter, then, that Mrs Weasley is looking at Sirius as if she wants him dead.

-xxx-

Harry is sitting in the old, black velvet armchair. Sirius is sitting on the bed.

"Have you packed?"

Harry shakes his head. "No, not yet." His wand lies across his knees, as if he is only here for a quick visit.

"You should."

It hurts. Or stings, at least, quite sharply. "I don't really want to go back."

Sirius acknowledges this with a grimace. "You have to."

It is a pointless discussion for of course Harry will be going back and why Sirius is suddenly choosing to behave like a responsible adult is unclear. His attitude, coupled with those stupid Muggle posters of the bikini clad girls on the wall behind him, makes Harry cold all over even though the room is rather warm.

"I know."

Sirius nods. He is only on the edge of the bed, not inviting or suggesting anything. "At what time do you plan to leave with the Knight bus?"

Harry's tongue feels like parchment. "I don't know," he says, if only to be obstinate.

"Well, the others will."

There is absolutely nothing to say to that and so silence lowers itself heavily over them until a dull ache grips Harry's insides and wrings his lungs into tangles. They came up here after supper because Sirius did not suggest otherwise and Harry wants nothing else than to be with him, but apparently whatever he had hoped for he can just as well forget.

"So," says Sirius, at last. His eyes are cool now, showing no trace of the desire that burned in them earlier. His voice holds an almost detached quality. "At school, among your…" a pause, "classmates. Is there anyone you fancy?"

He can just as well be pouring a bucket of sleet down Harry's back. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs. "You know… Are you going out with anyone?"

Harry stares at him. "No." He is having a hard time pushing the words past his teeth. "Not really."

Sirius offers a new odd grimace that has no likeness whatsoever to a smile. "Perhaps you should."

This makes no sense and Harry would tell him as much if he could only remember how to speak. The floor has disappeared under his feet and he is – distantly – grateful that he is sitting down.

Sirius continues instead, as if he has done nothing but raise kids his entire adult life. "You're fifteen, Harry. You should be having fun. I know you're having those dreams and I know that Hogwarts has changed a bit lately but… you've got all your friends there and loads of stuff to do. You've got Quidditch and… Well, the weekends. Hogsmeade."

Harry watches him talk but the words are buzzing so hard in his ears that he wants to throw up for the second time this day. He swallows against the sensation. "I don't want to go out with anyone," he finally forces out. He only wants Sirius.

"Well, I'm not going to force you," his godfather says, in a fashion that is sickeningly fatherly: the only thing missing is a conspiratorial waggle of the eyebrows. "But you should make sure to have some fun, too, at school."

Harry gets up. He has to. He needs to. Even the phoenix wand feels wrong in his grasp. Sirius' bedroom lies draped in shadows since the fire is burning rather low and the handful of lit candles are just that: a handful. He needs air and he is glad that his legs prove to work as he begins to move towards the door.

"I'm going to…" he manages. If he does not make it out of here quickly he will maybe start crying and he refuses to do that in front of Sirius. He has reached the door when the name pops into his mind like a stray thought and he seizes it desperately. "Cho," he says. "I fancy Cho."

Sirius sits up a little straighter. "Cho?"

"She's in Ravenclaw," he hears himself saying. "I… She's a Seeker, too."

Something draws over his godfather's face. His eyes fix on Harry and they are sharp now. "Oh," he says, not sounding very impressed at all. "Lovely."

"Yeah…" Harry feels for the doorknob behind him. He fumbles a bit for his fingers seem to have stopped working. "She kissed me, after one of our… our lessons." The kiss after their DA session had, of course, been a complete disaster but he is not about to tell Sirius that.

"Did she?" Some type of hardness is collecting in his godfather's jaw and his voice is clearly strained. "Well, good for you, Harry, for… exploring…" he makes a restrained little gesture with one hand, "options."

Harry licks his lips. The cool brass of the doorknob brushes against the back of his hand and he half turns towards it.

" _Harry_."

Sirius has got up too. He looks as though his breathing has gone shallow and there is a storm brewing in his beautiful grey eyes. "Don't."

Harry raises an eyebrow at him in a sudden burst of courage. There is time for one more breath, one more shaky heartbeat, before Sirius strides across the room and slams Harry up against the door. His mouth on Harry's is thunder and rain and lightning and everything in between.

-xxx-

He is fifteen years old and yearning. He is on his side, glasses discarded, trying to hold on to his breath. He is most definitely underage and he hates Dolores Umbridge and what she has done to Hogwarts, and soon he is going back. The purple triple-decker bus will put miles and miles between Harry and London, but - _oh God Merlin no -_ he is not thinking about that right now.

Sirius is plastered to his back, to his arse and the back of his thighs, so tight against Harry that there is scarcely room to feel. But feel he does. Sirius has parted his arse cheeks and has his hard cock wedged between them, and his arm looped around Harry's chest.

Sirius is probably too old. He is almost family. He is maybe a little bit mad (Harry thinks not). He is reckless and silly and funny and cynical and sometimes really bitter. He is covered in sweat and his longish hair is tangled and his breathing on Harry's neck and shoulder could just as well be a dragon's roar. He has slicked himself even though he apparently does not mean to penetrate. Not after Harry revealed to him that he is still sore from that afternoon and has refused to try to heal it.

Maybe Harry is a little bit mad, too.

Sirius tugs at him – as if they could come any closer. His kisses on his godson's neck are half-kisses, half-bites. He finds Harry's weeping prick and fists it until the room is spinning and Harry is close to tears. Sirius falls back and pulls Harry onto his chest. His hips buck upwards relentlessly, his slick, hard cock pounding between Harry's buttocks. Hands are grasping for purchase as moans and whimpers fill up the room until everything is practically shaking. It might actually be that the house is collapsing around them.

Sirius is thin: twelve years' near-starvation in Azkaban wore him down to a shadow. Harry is thin too, because he is a teenager and still growing and maybe he will always be that person who can eat whatever he fancies and not look it. Or maybe not: he is only a fifth-year and time will tell.

It begins in fifth year. _They_ begin in fifth year. In a few short months Death will close his long fingers around Sirius' wrist and yank but they do not know this yet.

Harry arches back against his godfather when light explodes within and he comes all over Sirius' hand that knows all the tricks in the world. He wants it to last forever.

 **TBC**


	3. Endure

**Chapter three - Endure**

He has screamed his throat raw. Blurry, dawn-grey shadows lie draped across the insides of the tent and the air has a bite to it, silently suggesting that it is still snowing outside.

 _Tick, tick, tick…_

"Harry…" She is beside him, handing him his glasses.

He pulls himself to sit to the creaking complaints of the bed, and then rubs the back of his hand over his eyes before donning the glasses. The world spins into sharp lines and hard edges. The muscles in his neck feel tight and taut, and he is sore all over, as if he has been in a fight.

Worry has flooded her eyes and she is crouching at his bedside. "Are you OK? Were you dreaming again?"

When is he not?

"Yeah…" There is pain, too. In his chest. It is the old pain, dull and heavy, but with a twist: it feels more acute now as hopelessness and regret have blended with frustration. He shakes his head, trying to pull his tangled thoughts apart. Or maybe to push the bitter memories and the fear away. He shivers and wishes the blankets were twice as thick. "It was about Sirius… And when he… when he fell."

She bites her lip. "Harry… I wish you wouldn't let him in."

"Let him in? I was dreaming of Sirius."

"Yes, I know. It's just that…" She glances down, maybe afraid of meeting his gaze. "Maybe he's using that… Using Sirius to get to you… Did you ever consider that?"

He stares at her. "You think You-Know-Who is making me dream of Sirius?"

"Well… He's done it before, hasn't he? And they aren't any pleasant dreams either." She looks up, a pleading note in her voice now. "I mean, you don't dream of the good times you spent together. Of… of… you know."

That is the truth and it is futile to deny it, but Harry would rather take a thousand nightmares of Sirius' fall into the Veil over a thousand without him. That way, at least, it still feels as if his godfather is around.

"It is not You-Know-Who," he says, decisively. His fitful sleep has left him feeling like he is sitting in cold water.

"Oh, Harry, you can't be sure… What if he's… If using Sirius' death–"

"He's not dead."

She swallows, he can see it, and there is a line of tension-bordering-on-fear over her eyes.

 _Tick, tick, tick…_

She gets to her feet. "I'll make some tea. I just… _If_ he's using Sirius, Harry…"

The anger hits him like a curse. "He's not!" His voice cuts through the crisp air, almost seems to leave an ugly tear in it.

 _Tick, tick…_

"He's not using Sirius!" Because Harry could not stand it if it were true. "You don't know what it's like, having to relive that day over and over again until you can never hope to forget it!" His throat is aching, but so also is his heart. _"You don't know!"_

Her cheeks are as white as the snow outside as she holds out her hand. He can see her speaking but he cannot quite make out the words because his own sudden anger is roaring in his ears.

 _Everybody keeps on dying!_

Then she is up close, looking much like she wants to punch him, and everything stops.

Her voice comes drifting from a hundred miles away. "Give me the locket, Harry. You've had it all night."

He fumbles with the chain around his neck. The locket feels like a shard of ice pressed into his chest. It ticks and chirps as he lifts it off and hands it over to her, the tiny beating heart inside calling out to him. She nods and lets out a long breath. Then she puts it on. The gold glints tauntingly in the morning light before she slips it beneath her jumper.

Harry feels his shoulders sag. He is drained and he only just woke up. "I'm sorry, Hermione."

She shakes her head. "It's OK."

While she busies herself with tea and whatnot, Harry tugs the blankets around himself. He should probably be hungry, he knows, but what he really longs for is a hot bath. It seems to him not so long ago that his dreams left him filled with a purpose. He used to wake up a little bit afraid but also inspired to keep on fighting. In a way, his dreams left him stronger. These days, they mostly leave him exhausted and haunted.

"I know you miss him," she says, tentatively. She has wrapped her fingers around her mug for comfort.

Harry nods stiffly. He has nothing to say to that, really. Nothing that has not already been said.

"And I understand that…" She takes a sip of her tea and then deposits the mug on the table. "I mean, with him… gone…."

 _Tick, tick…_

"He's not dead, Hermione," he tells her, sharply.

Something flashes in her eyes. "We don't know that!" Then she clamps her hand to her mouth and tears well up in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she mumbles, through her fingers. "I'm so sorry, Harry." She tears the locket off and tosses it onto the floor.

It lies there, glinting at them both. _Tick, tick, tick…._

"I hate it," she says.

She comes to sit beside him. Her lower lip is trembling. "I _hate_ it," she whispers. Her brown eyes are so big and familiar, and they are not just shining with tears but with the anxiety that is no doubt mirrored in his own.

"Me too."

They sit for a while as the day brightens outside.

"We should move on," says Harry, at last.

Silence stretches again and it is a while before Hermione takes his hand. When he meets her gaze it is firm and steady. "We will do this," she says, quietly. "We'll defeat him, Harry, and then you can find out about Sirius."

He threads their fingers together. "I love you."

Her smile is fragile, but it's more than he has seen from her in days.

-xxx-

She still misses Ron terribly. She has mostly stopped crying and they do not talk about it but it is obvious. Harry misses Ron too even though he is still angry with him. They spend no more than two nights in a row in the same place, Apparating from hilltop to forest to field to (unfortunately) a muddy bog to the outskirts of small towns. A lot of the time they are hungry for the trips into any available shops or bakeries or barns must be accomplished in a hurry under Harry's Cloak, and Hermione always feels awful if she cannot leave at least some money behind.

Harry spends much of his time staring at the Marauder's Map. It makes him feel a bit better, watching familiar names move across the parchment. It sort of anchors him, attaches him to a world that is starting to feel very distant indeed. He watches as Ginny and Luna turn this corner or walk down that corridor. He wonders what Hogwarts is like now and if Ginny would have been safer at The Burrow. But probably not. Not if the Ministry is counting heads and keeping records, of Purebloods and Muggle-borns alike.

And he thinks about Sirius. He thinks so hard about Sirius that sometimes he wonders if his brain will simply break from it. He misses him so much that he, too, could easily spend a week crying. In fact, if it were not for this horrible mission Dumbledore saw fit to leave him with, he might be doing just that, right now. As Harry sits at the mouth of the tent, gazing out into the cold December night, he is almost ashamed that he misses Sirius more than he does Ron.

But Harry was never in love with Ron and Ron never died.

-xxx-

 _They were in the middle of another planning session. Hermione had come back earlier that afternoon, having spent several hours snooping around the Ministry entrance and taking notes. Now they were poring over their research in the basement kitchen, while Kreacher, draped in a pristine towel, hummed (rather tunelessly) to himself by the stove._

 _The silver streak of light had erupted into the air, just above their heads and made Hermione gasp. The weasel landed gracefully on top of one of Ron's hand-drawn maps and tipped his head to Harry. Mr Weasley's voice, somewhat hushed and rushed, seemed to burn itself into him._

' _Stay where you are. Do nothing. Padfoot is alive. Stay where you are.'_

 _The Patronus had disappeared almost before the last syllable had been uttered. It left them staring at the spot it had vacated and the silence that fell felt like a blow. Then all the noise in the world had invaded Harry's mind and he flew off his seat with his head ringing._

' _You heard him!' He barely heard himself. 'DID YOU HEAR THAT?!'_

 _The floor was wobbling, the walls coming down around him. Ron and Hermione were gaping at him. Harry backed away from the table with the air in his lungs clawing at him from the inside._

' _You heard what he said!'_

 _He saw Ron getting up, too, and he was saying something Harry could not make out. His blood was thundering through his veins: it was both better and worse than the pain that shot through his head every time his mind connected to Voldemort's._

' _I have to see him!'_

 _The door. He needed to get to the door. Or the fireplace. He needed to Floo somewhere… to Sirius._

' _Harry!' Ron was beside him now, tearing at his arms. 'No!'_

 _Hermione was standing up as well, looking absolutely horrified. Which was inexplicable because Sirius was alive._

 _He wrenched his arm free of Ron's grasp. He had his wand. He knew that because his knuckles were hurting from the grip he had on it. He needed to get out._

' _HARRY!'_

 _The light from the fire was dancing, burning upon the walls. He was nauseous and his scar prickled. Small lights flickered on the edges of his vision as strong arms wrapped around him from behind and pulled him from the fireplace. It hurt. Everything hurt._

 _Ron was dragging him backwards, shouting in his ear, making all that pain well up inside of Harry. His tears were scorching his cheeks, staining his glasses and Harry's throat was raw with screaming. Then it all came to an end as Hermione's Stunning Charm hit him square in the chest._

 _She had been crying when he came to and her endless stream of apologies nearly suffocated him._

 _That day, and the ones that followed, had been some of the worst days of Harry's life._

He wiggles his fingers and toes to coax some warmth into them. He still does not know how or what or why. He knows nothing as he sits and stares out into the night. If Sirius is alive – if it is true – he has made no effort to contact Harry, has sent him no sign, no nothing.

If he is still dead… If Harry manages to kill Voldemort only to come back and find out that Sirius is still dead then… Well, after everything, he is not sure he could survive that.

-xxx-

She drops her gaze to her hands in her lap. "We never talked about it…"

They have made camp on a hillside somewhere in the southwest of Scotland. There was a faint trace of the sea upon the air as they arrived mid-afternoon and since that was a bit of a change they decided to stay.

When she looks up again, she almost looks nervous. "You and me, I mean. I never asked you… what it was like or… Well, what happened, really."

They are in the same bunk bed, sharing a few biscuits Harry successfully pilfered from a small café the day before yesterday. Maybe it was the scent of the sea on the icy wind that lifted their moods enough to decide that it would do them good to leave the locket on the table for an hour or two. It lies beside the Sneakoscope now, gold, glittering and disturbingly alive.

Harry turns his eyes from it and shakes his head. "I'm not sure I know what happened," he admits. "It just did."

"But…" She is trying to choose her words very carefully. In the end, however, she apparently cannot think of a way to frame her thoughts, so she falls silent again.

He thinks back, forces his mind to go places he mostly tries to avoid. "I…" He takes a deep breath. "I just fell in love with him, Hermione."

She nods slowly. "When we went to Grimmauld Place for Christmas... You were so happy to see Sirius." She smiles, softly. "You spent so much time together. And he was really happy, too, do you remember?"

"Yeah…" Harry also finds a smile. It feels odd. "He decorated the entire house."

"He was thrilled to have you there."

His smile transforms into a wry grin. It must be ages since he grinned. " _Thrilled_."

"What _did_ happen, Harry?"

He cannot help it. "Well… Considering I was fifteen, I'm sure it was illegal."

Her snort is half-laughter, half-shock, but her brown eyes are intent on him now and they narrow in suspicion. "It was you, wasn't it? It wasn't Sirius who instigated it?"

He tries to keep a straight face but fails miserably. "Perhaps…"

She gapes at him. "Harry! That must have been an awful position for Sirius to be put in. You're horrid!"

"Well, he could have said no!"

"Sirius Black denying you anything you wanted?" She raises an eyebrow. "You know he would never do that. Poor Sirius."

And suddenly they are laughing. Laughing over the biscuits and the tea and into the cool night and this awful winter.

"What was it like, then?" she finally asks, after she has wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

Harry is warmer now – from laughing, from remembering those days when everything was bright and shining. The tent seems cosier and the air softer. He runs the pad of his index finger along the length of his wand where it lies beside him on the bed. "It was… overwhelming. Amazing."

She nods. There is a rosy hue now, to her cheeks. "I never…" She glances towards Ron's empty bed and the colour in her cheeks deepens. "I mean, _we_ never…"

"No… I figured."

They fall silent after that. Outside, far off in the distance, an owl hoots.

 **TBC**


	4. Lack

Here we are! Next chapter might be somewhat delayed since I'll be travelling next week. In the meantime, please enjoy this update.

 **Chapter four – Lack**

They have taken refuge in the sagging armchairs. Hermione is currently outside, probably scowling, possibly inventing ways to hex Ron halfway to Antarctica. Which, in Harry's humble opinion would be awfully counterproductive but he is not too keen to tell Hermione that in this very moment, not when she is looking more and more like a thundercloud made of steel. Instead, he leans forwards:

"Tell me again."

Ron has pulled on a maroon jumper that clashes quite brutally against his red hair. For his part, he has been exhibiting an almost unnaturally perky attitude ever since they returned with the sword and the destroyed locket but, unfortunately, at Harry's question, he makes a face and his shoulders drop ominously. "I've already told you everything, mate."

Harry frowns. "But didn't they say _anything_?"

Ron shakes his head. "They wouldn't. Reckon they were afraid I'd let you know if I ever found you again. You'd risk your life, Harry, to see him and they know it."

"Course I would."

"Yeah… See?" He flashes a bleak grin.

Harry's fingers are itching like he needs to do magic but the blackthorn wand Ron has given him feels frightfully unfamiliar and dull in his hand. Frustration is lapping at him from all sides, eating its way towards his heart.

"Listen, all Bill could say is that he is being kept somewhere and that he's weak." In a pre-emptive strike to stave off a new flood of questions, he holds up his hands. "I don't know where that is or what that means."

Harry wants to pace, and maybe to scream, but he keeps to his chair as if glued to it. When Ron first confirmed Sirius was still alive Harry felt such relief and joy that his knees nearly buckled under him but now anxiety is crawling over him like a thousand spiders.

"Do you think he's at The Burrow?"

"Dunno."

"So how did it happen?"

"Dunno that either," says Ron, with another shake of his head. Some of his hair falls into his eyes. "Bill's got a theory though. Says You-Know-Who is using all kinds of Dark magic. Might be that he's trying to wake the dead and that somehow brought Sirius back. He's bloody lucky the right people at the Ministry found him when they did."

This is surely torture. Outside, the sun is peeking through the clouds and glinting off the frosted branches. It is a rather beautiful day but all the sunlight does to Harry is to grate on his patience.

"Listen," Ron says, earnestly. His blue eyes are beseeching. "I'm sorry, mate. You know I'd tell you more if I could."

"I know…" Harry sits back in his chair. "But maybe if I could…"

This, however, is apparently when Ron decides he has heard enough.

" _Harry_. Come off it. You're not going. You weren't going the first time and you're not going now." He fixes Harry with a sharp, and very blue, stare. "Even _if_ we knew where they're keeping him, you couldn't: you'd jeopardise our safety the minute we got there. And Sirius', most like. We don't know their means of protection, what charms they're using. We could crash into them and– "

"I'm not asking you to come with me."

Ron dismisses this with a roll of his eyes. "Listen, mate, you'd not be going alone. Hermione and me would be coming with you. You know that."

Harry swallows. He cannot immediately find an answer to that. He is quite sure that they do not understand exactly _how_ grateful he is that they have not abandoned him yet. Or, better put perhaps, that they are still with him.

"Plus, as soon as you found him you'd not be bloody likely to want to leave his side again, would you?" Ron continues, making sense and all. "Meaning, that nobody would be hunting for the Horcruxes." He holds out his hands in an explanatory gesture. " _Obviously_ I couldn't do it on my own and Hermione – as brilliant as she is – couldn't do it either." He flashes a lopsided grin. "She needs us. To keep her grounded, you know. And as for you, you're the Chosen One who's meant to be doing all of this in the first place."

Harry nods. A streak of pain works its way through his chest and for a split second it is as if he can feel the way Sirius used to hold him: so very close, until they were almost sharing the same heartbeat. He pushes past the sensation and focuses on Ron instead. His friend's long face is softer now, his grimace more compassion than opposition.

"You're right," says Harry, and his voice sounds small in the tent.

"Yeah," Ron agrees. "Doesn't mean I don't get it, though."

He pulls his gaze from Harry and it settles on the opposite wall, where the entrance to the tent is. Harry looks, too, but he cannot see Hermione through the canvas.

-xxx-

Since Hermione still mostly refuses to acknowledge Ron's presence, Harry and Ron find plenty of time for catching up. As the days pass, the heady feeling of victory and _finally-some-progress_ that followed the destruction of the locket gradually begins to dissipate, leaving a bitter taste on Harry's tongue. Where the other Horcruxes could be – or _what_ they could be, for that matter – remains a mystery and time is ruthlessly ticking away.

To appease Hermione (and because she has a point) Harry keeps practicing with the blackthorn wand but it is as though his magic ties itself into a knot inside the wand and refuses to flow every time he attempts even the simplest charm. He feels clumsy and slow, and the wand alternately feels too heavy or too light, even slippery in his grasp at times.

"So…"

They are currently in a thick forest somewhere in northern England where crisp, white snow lies in heaps on the branches around and above them. Harry, who has been trying to Transfigure a frozen pinecone, glances up. The pinecone twitches and falls back into the snow, quite unchanged.

Ron is looking a bit awkward. "About that thing t'was in the locket, yeah?"

This they have not talked about. Not really. They briefly touched upon it when Ron had just stabbed the locket but then he had been crying and Harry had been half-frozen himself after that dive into the forest pool.

"Right." It is no use pretending he does not understand what Ron is alluding to. It is uncomfortable remembering the dreadful Riddle versions of himself and Hermione taunting Ron, kissing even. He shudders.

Ron reads him expertly. "Listen, I know it wasn't real. I mean, deep down I knew, _really_ knew. I'm not an idiot. It was just that… It made me think about stuff in a weird way."

Harry nods. "It didn't want to be killed. It's part of his magic. It tried to twist your mind so that you wouldn't end it."

"Yeah…" The tips of Ron's ears have turned a deeper shade of red and he flashes a self-conscious grin. He pulls off a glove to scratch at his chin. "You know… it would've been easier if you'd only liked blokes."

Harry grins, too. Sort of. But something warm-cold and almost sticky slides through his stomach uneasily.

Ron picks up another pinecone and dusts the snow from it. "I know how you feel about Sirius," he continues, forcing Harry to plough deeper into these issues. "But when I wore the locket it was like I could only remember that you once went out with Cho."

The warm-cold-sticky something turns in Harry's stomach. He wishes Ron had never approached this subject. "I…" He swallows. "I wasn't being fair to Cho," he says, maybe for the first time.

Ron, however, only shrugs. "Well, honestly, she wasn't being fair to you either. She didn't want you, did she? She wanted Cedric." He makes a face. "No offence."

Harry shakes his head. "I don't know… You know… Sirius never said anything to effect of us being in some sort of relationship." He thinks back, the old stab of disappointment in his chest fresh as ever. "He even asked if I was going out with somebody."

"Sounds like Sirius."

"Yeah well… So I thought that maybe I should try it with Cho. I did fancy her, you know."

Ron nods. "She's pretty."

Harry produces a weary smile. "Except she's not Sirius."

"No, not exactly."

-xxx-

They are both asleep. Harry has been lying quite still, listening to their breathing for a good long while now. It is dark and the forest is quiet.

 _Sirius, Sirius, Sirius…_

His thoughts spin in circles, always returning to his godfather, now supposedly alive. Out there, somewhere. Weak but alive.

He wonders what 'weak' means. He is, in fact, terrified that it means anything but 'will be perfectly fine'. Sometimes that fear threatens to drown out all other sensations and obliterate every thought that cannot be immediately tied to Sirius.

Hermione is persistent in her admonishments: they need to focus on the Horcruxes. _Harry_ needs to focus or else they could just as well go back home. Except there might not be a home to come back to. And that would not do Sirius any good either.

He turns onto his side and stares into the blurry darkness. He has buried himself under both of his blankets and thus lies cocooned in warmth. His back is to Ron and Hermione.

He pretends. He pretends that Sirius is behind him, spooning up behind him and holding him tight. He imagines his godfather's mouth on his neck, just like that first time, and the night that followed (and the night after that). He imagines Sirius warm, too, and stronger and happier than when they last met. Sirius is holding him and smiling into his neck and leaving little kisses there that melt into Harry's skin to float just beneath the surface. Sirius is pressing up against him, and they are naked.

His godfather is hard. He is parting Harry's arse cheeks and allowing his arousal in between them. Then his hand slides to Harry's groin and he takes Harry in a firm grasp and begins stroking him. He is saying something, maybe asking if Harry likes it like this. If he could be even harder, for him.

Harry's body has changed. It is two years since they last touched each other. The wiry hairs around his cock are thicker now and there is the humblest dusting of dark hair over his chest. He is bigger, too. Sirius can feel as much and he hums at this discovery. He mumbles something else in Harry's ear before he reaches down lower and palms Harry's bollocks. He is pleased. No, he is _delighted_. He loves the heavier feel of Harry's cock, the way he is becoming a man, finally leaving his younger self in the past.

Harry stretches back against him, his hand joining Sirius'. He bites his lip to stop the moan from spilling over it into the dense night. His hand moves up and down, up and down, over his swollen cock in a desperate need for release. He needs to soar and to float and to be filled with all that light Sirius always conjured for them. His hand is slick now from his precome and he twists the blunt head just like Sirius did. He turns his face into the pillow to muffle his groan. Sirius is in his mind, in his heart. He is in his body. Somewhere, somehow, still there.

Harry slides the pad of his thumb over the slit at the tip of his cock and he can hear his godfather's breathing like thunderous waves in his ears. He can feel his smile on his skin. He comes, hard and fast, under the blankets, into yet another winter night. Into darkness.

-xxx-

It is early evening. Ron is fiddling with his wooden wireless while Harry is trying to Levitate small stones with the bloody blackthorn wand. This is when she climbs down from her bunk and stalks over to Harry, _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ in hand.

"I want to go and see Xenophilius Lovegood."

And something finally causes something else to happen.

 **TBC**


	5. Comprehend

Here we are again. Sorry about the delay. After this one, we have two more chapters left. Thank you for reading!

 **Chapter five – Comprehend**

It is when they are descending the stairs that lead to the Headmaster's office that it catches up with him: part of the step has been blasted off and he slips on the jagged end of the sooty stone. Ron's hand that shoots out to steady his elbow is what keeps him from falling.

"Oi! Mate, you all right?"

Hermione is two steps behind them. "Harry?"

Harry's stone step is tilting sideways and for a moment everything blurs together. He blinks the castle back into sharpness. "Yeah. Fine."

The grip he has on the two wands, phoenix and Elder, has made his knuckles go white. With a conscious effort he eases his hold on them and the band of pain across his knuckles disappears. He meets Ron's inquiring blue gaze and for a few heartbeats all they do is stare at each other. Then it catches up with Ron, too.

All of it. Half of Hogwarts lies in ruins around them. Voldemort might be dead but so are others. So many others.

A shadow draws in over Ron's face and Harry can feel the same happening to himself. It is over and they have no reason any longer to stall. It is time to face the aftermath.

The last battle consumed him. It forced every other thought from his mind until all he could think of was how – _how_ – to gain the upper hand. If there was one more loophole, just one more twist to the path he had been walking. He had thought not, for a while, and had been ready to die. And maybe he had died, too. Harry's overworked brain does not seem to know, at the moment, if he is dead or alive.

He tastes copper on his tongue and he has no idea how it is that his legs and feet are still functioning. He has not eaten or slept in hours and his wounds and scrapes and bruises are beginning to hurt in unison. Sound comes drifting to them from the Great Hall as they approach and even though it is really quite muted it seems to thunder through his head like centaur hooves.

They step across the threshold, all of them fully visible as Harry has stowed away the Cloak in his robes, but it turns out that he is quite free now to walk among the others without being clapped on the back or getting his shoulder thumped. The explosion of joy, of utter elation, that engulfed his fellow students and teachers and all the others at the final death of Voldemort has dwindled into relief, has melted away. And it tows grief in its wake.

The Great Hall is cracked and dusty, maybe even partly wounded beyond repair, but it serves. People sit at the tables, holding each other. Crying into each other. Talking in hushed voices. Harry, Ron and Hermione dully weave between the tables until they spot the Weasleys and Ron drifts off, his exchange with Harry on the matter completed in silence and perfect understanding. Hermione stops by Luna where she and Dean are sitting with Seamus and Ernie.

Harry walks on. He has no desire to ever again see a dead body and still his feet carry him across the Hall and into the room that leads off it, where they have laid out the dead. Everyone except for Voldemort, it turns out. They lie in neat rows, blank faces towards a high ceiling. The windows in here are smaller but they show the dazzling morning outside just as well as any others. The sky is still rosy and gold is glittering on the horizon. Harry turns his back to it.

He is alone with the fallen. His sacrifice.

He swallows against the rising bile in his throat and the floor under his feet seem to dip once again and waver. For a brief second the world turns black but then he sees them again – all of them, laid out for his conscience to battle with.

Then, a movement in the corner of his eye makes him start. He sees her first: Tonks, pale and just as dead as everyone else. There is the faintest shimmer of a soft, pearly pink in her streaked-back hair. They have placed her next to Lupin.

There is a man crying over Lupin's dead body.

He had not seen him first but now Harry averts his eyes and makes to turn away. He does not want to intrude, but, finally, his feet stop working and he looks again.

As if the man senses his presence, he lifts his shaggy black head and makes something sharp fall from Harry's throat to the empty pit of his stomach.

Grey, haunted eyes fix on him.

Harry's legs turn to water as the floor rushes up to meet his knees.

-xxx-

He lies against something almost warm. Something hard-soft, swathed in fabric.

He shoots up with a stab of pain through his heart and head. Bright light is falling in through high windows and specks of dust are still floating in the air. It is too bright.

It rushes over him. Somebody is breathing beside him.

It is not real. Only it is. Simply because it must be. Harry stares down at him and tries to comprehend. Sirius' face is pale and the sheen of stubble over his chin and sunken cheeks is a layer of shadow that looks hard, somehow. There are dark pools under his eyes.

"Sirius?" His voice comes out in a choked whisper. If this is another dream, another King's Cross type of vision or – worse yet – a Polyjuice experiment, Harry will not be able to handle it. "Sirius, _please_..."

He stirs. His fingers – those long, beautiful fingers that once worked Harry open until he thought he might dissolve – twitch against the lumpy mattress they apparently have been resting on. Sirius is on his back.

"Harry..." It is no more than a disturbance of the air. His lips barely move.

"Sirius..."

He is suddenly afraid to touch. It feels like ages and ages and ages ago that they shared the same bed at Grimmauld Place. That was another life, another reality. Now, with the agonising waves of loss and grief rolling through the Great Hall, death is so much more present still than life.

Harry is cold all over; his fingers are ice. Sirius looks like himself and yet does not. He is something else and yet perfectly identical to the man that Harry has longed for so hard that at times he has barely been able to breathe.

It is impossible to understand.

Staring down at his godfather, the plea tumbles out of him before he knows he has opened his mouth. It is barely audible: "Don't go."

Then comes the darkness, and Harry rips off his glasses and buries his face in Sirius' shoulder. Sirius, who lies still as if dead.

-xxx-

The next time he wakes it is because somebody is shaking his shoulder gently. He shoots up nonetheless, with muddled dreams still twisting darkly in the corners of his mind.

"Potter." Professor McGonagall is pressing his glasses into his hands.

She has twisted up her hair again and washed her face but she cannot wash away the weariness in her eyes. "Potter," she says again, a little firmer now that Harry is attempting to focus. "I'm sorry to wake you but you have been sleeping for quite a while and we thought it best to check on you."

He frowns. There is a dull pounding at his temples.

 _Sirius_.

He turns his head so quickly to look that stars spark around the edges of his vision. His godfather has not moved an inch.

"Professor," he croaks out. It hurts, speaking, like a piece of his voice has been chipped off and left with a splintery edge that now drags against his throat. "What's wrong with him?"

She has been bending over them but now she straightens. A deep furrow has settled between her brows. "I could not tell you," she admits, honestly but not unkindly.

With what feels like an incredible effort, Harry manages to stand. Every muscle in his body protests and the pounding in his head intensifies. "Did you know he was back?"

She gives a curt little nod. "I had heard."

They are in another room, adjacent to the Great Hall and rather small. He can hear voices drifting over the threshold and warm golden light spills in across the worn tiles to pool upon them. Outside, the sun has risen higher and it, too, casts light into the room in broad strokes. It does nothing for Sirius, however, who somehow looks like he is swathed in darkness. It makes something cold and sinister twist around Harry's lungs, threatening to crush the air out of him.

"Professor…?"

He has no words for it, none that he is willing to utter, that is. For he could never stand hearing himself voicing the most dreadful prospect of all: _is he dying?_

"Potter, I need you to eat something."

"But–"

"I will ask Poppy to take a look at him."

Harry stares at her. It seems his brain cannot work out exactly what it is she is saying – it could just as well be a year before he understands that she is talking about Madam Pomfrey. Still, his face must have spoken for him for suddenly she grips him by the shoulders and behind her square spectacles her eyes turn hard.

" _Potter_. We are quite done with the dying, do you hear me?"

He nods, not only because he so desperately wants to believe her but also because it proves tricky to do much else before that gaze.

"Good." She, too, nods, as if they have come to a mutually satisfactory understanding. "Now, there are sandwiches and pumpkin juice in the Hall. And hot chocolate. I order you to have at least one mug."

It turns out to be a bit of a relief to be given something else to do besides dealing with Sirius' reappearance. Harry finds his way to a seat beside Luna and a minor mound of sandwiches and several pitchers of pumpkin juice. They do not speak much but she smiles at him and that helps. She does not remark on the memories of tears on his cheeks either. It helps a lot, actually, and Harry silently vows that one day when he can find his voice he will tell her that.

When he returns to the little room where Sirius is sleeping there is no sign of Madam Pomfrey or McGonagall. The sunlight is still streaming in through the windows and it plays in the chandelier above and in the few gilded frames on the walls; there is some shuffling and indignant huffing in one of the portraits upon his arrival, but Harry has no time to spare any curious oil-on-canvas onlookers. He feels a fraction braver now, courtesy of the sandwiches and the chocolate he has had perhaps, and somewhat warmer.

There is still room beside Sirius.

Gingerly he lowers himself down until they are lying side by side. Flooded as the room is by the brightness of the sun it would be easy to admit to delusion: it is difficult to pretend that his godfather does not look like his skin is spun from dreary dreams and every shade of night. Still, Harry must try and look past this and find something hopeful to hold on to. If he cannot do this – he is quite certain – they could just as well lay him out in the other room, and forget him.

Forcing his fear firmly aside, Harry stares into Sirius' face. There is a smile there somewhere (never mind if it is cynical), he makes himself sure of it, and any minute now Sirius will say something… Something sarcastic maybe. And then he will open his eyes and wink at Harry and tell him that he looks like something Padfoot could have dug up from Hagrid's vegetable patch.

But there is no movement.

So it is easier not seeing.

Harry takes off his glasses and rubs his stinging eyes with the back of his hand. He is rather filthy and that does not help with the stinging but he does not care. His throat is too tight anyway and…

Then come the tears. So many tears – white-hot tears – burn in Harry's eyes as he squeezes them shut. Not able any longer to keep his distance, he buries his face in his godfather's shoulder and winds his arm around his waist. He is so thin under his worn robes.

He can barely breathe with his face pressed against Sirius but it does not matter. All that matters is that Sirius lets go of a small moan.

"My..."

Harry is crying in earnest now. He is wetting Sirius' robes and shuddering against his arm and shoulder. It pours out of him: all the fear and all the darkness that has collected in his heart over the past two years. He clutches at his godfather as he finally allows himself to shatter.

Sirius is still there when he is done. Harry tries to catch his breath. He moves back a little, half-pushes himself up enough to be able to stare into the other man's blurred face. "You're here." It sounds silly when it drops from his lips but for the longest time Sirius has _not_ been around.

There is a small, easy-to-miss twitch in the corner of his godfather's mouth. "'Cause you." His dry lips stay slightly parted. "Couldn' keep m'away."

A tightness that is not entirely awful gathers around Harry's heart. He lies down again, back against Sirius and closes his eyes. Beside him, his godfather's exhale blends with the play of golden light:

"My Harry."

 **TBC**


	6. Recover

I'm sorry about the delay but here is the next chapter!

 **Chapter 6 – Recover**

The passing days turn into a strange summer. It is a summer of mourning, grief and silence, but also of rebuilding. Harry, Ron and Hermione find plenty of time to talk – as if they have not already spent the greater part of a year together doing just that. But it is different now: for the first time in many years, time is on their side and nobody is asking the impossible of Harry any longer.

They talk it through: every detail of every memory is pulled forth into the light and examined from all possible angles. They go over everything that happened through the years, everything from the wealth of information that Dumbledore passed on to Harry (it seems greater now in retrospect – when so many of the pieces of the puzzle have been uncovered – than it did on the hunt), to Draco's actions, and the way Snape behaved – in the light, now, of what they have learnt about his love for Lily. It is liberating, to meticulously weave through it all. It becomes a way for them to process.

 _And heal_ , Harry thinks, at he watches humour and joy slowly begin to shine again in Ron's eyes after the loss of Fred.

Ron and Hermione are being very considerate, which is nice. And open, too, about the way their relationship is changing, which is uncomfortable at first but rather quickly turns out to be a good thing. It would have been worse if they had hidden it from him. The way it is now, they make it clear – without saying very much at all on the subject really – that Harry is still as much a part of their trio as he has ever been. Or, _The Golden Trio_ , as the _Prophet_ hollers from every page. Whichever way, to Harry's infinite relief and pleasure, he is quickly assured that blossoming romance does not grate on the bonds of friendship.

They hold hands, Ron and Hermione, and sometimes when Ron is on the bed with his back to the wall and his legs spread out before him, he pulls Hermione in to sit between them. She usually mutters something and frowns but eventually leans back against him.

They discuss wands and Snitches, and Fiendfyre and Patronuses. Hermione reads _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_ again (even though she probably already knows it by heart) and Harry thumbs through Beedle the Bard, pausing long moments before the inked-in sign of the Deathly Hallows every time.

It is, in a way, hard to let go.

People come to visit. Charlie takes several weeks off from work and shares a room with Percy. They manage. Kingsley, appointed Minster though he is, finds time for them and so also does Professor Slughorn (Harry imagines that there is a perpetual undercurrent of guilt in his eyes). Since there is suddenly a distinct lack of space at The Burrow, Fleur and Bill remain at Shell Cottage but they Floo over almost every day to sort out the cooking as Mrs Weasley cannot face it.

After a time, Hermione's parents return to England with their memories restored. This causes a whole new level of commotion and it is a while before things settle down again.

The weeks pass. The time Harry does not spend with the others he spends in Sirius' little room. It is a bright room, not unlike Ginny's (of which he has seen only glimpses while passing by) and he keeps the curtains pushed away from the windows to let the summer sunlight sweep inside. He imagines this helps. He pretends that the dazzling burst of dawn, the comforting bands of noon sunlight and the sizzling firework of sunset sink into Sirius too pale skin and shine their light from within. If only Sirius would open his eyes, Harry would see that light reflected back at him.

Slughorn leaves the potions with Harry when he pops by. The first few times Harry only watched as his former professor gently lifted Sirius' head in his hands and the glass vial to his lips. Slughorn explained the effects to Harry in detail, showed him how to mix the ingredients together and how often to administer the potions. Behind his walrus moustache his face was somewhat hard to read but there was no mistaking the nature of that which sometimes rose in his eyes. Harry knows it too well, himself. He knows what it is to be haunted.

Faithfully, Slughorn lumbered up and down the stairs to Sirius' room until Harry felt confident enough to take over completely. He still pops his head in from time to time and though he does his best to drum up an encouraging smile every time, by the end of June, desperation and defeat make themselves present in his gaze.

Hermione returns in mid-July, just as a rainstorm passes over Ottery St Catchpole. Mr Weasley is flinging off his cloak in the hallway, scattering drops of rainwater over the carpet, and Bill has just placed a steaming pot on the kitchen table. The sudden sighting through the window of Hermione hurrying across the grass to the door has Ron's attention quite diverted where he sits, spoon at the ready. It is good to have her back. It did not feel the same without her.

She finds him in Sirius' room, by his bedside. She is wearing a new jumper Harry has never seen before and he suddenly realises how much her hair has grown: it reaches halfway down her back now.

"Harry? Can I come in?"

He nods and she steps across the threshold. "How is he?"

"The same."

She pulls up the other chair and plops down beside him. Her lips form a thin, grim line as she regards Sirius, motionless in the bed. "What does Professor Slughorn say?"

Harry shrugs. He is stiff from sitting down and there is a murmur of pain in his lower back. "Not much," he admits. "But he's not a Healer."

She nods thoughtfully. "Maybe you should have another Healer examine him, Harry. I know what Madam Pomfrey said but… maybe there's something else… Something more we can do?"

"Maybe…"

The storm is gone but rain is still tapping on the windows. Harry wishes for it to stop, to move on and let the sun stream down again.

She turns from Sirius and her brown eyes land softly on Harry's face instead. "How are _you_?"

He wants to shrug again and pretend that he is handling this perfectly well but her kindness is stirring things up inside him and making his throat tight. "I…"

Sirius is nothing but pale skin, shallow, empty breaths and dark hair and stubble and circles under the eyes that all blend together into a scary palette of despair. He is alive, to be sure, but if a living man can also be dead, this is what Sirius is.

She leans in and takes Harry's hand. Her fingers feel warm around his cold ones and she gives them a squeeze. "Did you try… Sharing a bed with him?"

He frowns at her. "What? Here?"

"Yeah…" Her voice drops closer to a whisper. "I mean, you _were_ … Well…" It seems she cannot finish her sentence while still looking him in the eye for her gaze skids over Sirius' immobile form instead. "Sometimes… those kinds of things sort of help." She clears her throat.

"Hermione… What is it that you're saying exactly?"

Some colour steals across her cheeks and she pulls her hand free. She sits up a little straighter. "Well..."

"Hermione, really?" In his surprise, he is grinning at her. "Are you suggesting that I…?"

"No! Goodness, Harry!" There is no forcing away that burn in her cheeks, however. "All I am saying is that you and Sirius used to be… well, _intimate_ and so you could maybe try to use that connection."

He frowns at her, no longer sure of what she is getting at. His confusion must be written all over his face because she rolls her eyes.

"Oh, fine! You and Sirius had sex. A few times, if I've understood matters correctly. Which must've meant that you both liked it. _And,_ as for you, Harry, you've been in love with him ever since – if you weren't before. So, use that! I'm sure the potions are important while he's unconscious and not eating but they _are_ only potions, Harry. If you want to bring him back from the darkness, you've got to do something else." She raises an eyebrow. "Obviously."

"Right." He blinks at her.

"Besides, you look like you need a shave. And a bath, to be honest."

There is a space of silence between them during which only the insistent beating of the rain on the windows can be heard.

"OK," says Harry, finally, when he thinks he has successfully digested her suggestion. Then, absurdly, he hears himself saying: "I don't think I've ever needed a shave before."

At this, she smiles, and the fondness is back in her face. "I think you're right."

"So…" Harry licks his lips, trying to hold back a suggestive grin. "You and Ron, eh…?"

"What? No!" The colour crashes back into her cheeks. She gives an odd little jerk of the head. "Well…"

Harry laughs and she thwacks his thigh.

"Maybe."

"Right."

"I'm leaving," she announces, but by now her grin is matching Harry's. When she is on her feet, however, she pauses, the grin melting back into a warm smile. "This too, Harry: laughter."

He sits staring after her for quite some time before he finds the courage to turn back to his godfather. Sirius looks so incredibly fragile, like he will break if Harry tried to lie down next to him. He looks… much like he is immersed in his own world, encased in something Harry cannot break through. He looks… unreachable.

Harry pulls off his trainers. Hermione is probably right about him needing to wash but… Hesitantly, he glances at the door she left ajar. He makes his decision slowly: it actually takes him a few minutes to reach the door, pull it closed and return to Sirius' bedside.

What if… if on some level Sirius is still aware of what is going on and is really quite against this? It never happened again after Christmas break, after all. Instead, Harry walked straight into Voldemort's trap. It was Harry's own fault that Sirius died, he knows this with every fibre of his body. If he had only taken one peek into the mirror Sirius had given him he would never have gone to the Department of Mysteries and they would not be here. Not like this, anyway.

He fingers the waistband of his jeans but somehow seems unable to take them off. He knows that under the covers, Sirius is wearing one of Percy's old pyjama bottoms and a simple t-shirt. After all this time, it is inexplicably hard to undress for his godfather, even in his present state.

Voices drift into the room from under the door but they seem far away. Among them, Harry can make out Kingsley's comforting rumble and Charlie's laughter.

Laughter.

Laughter and… closeness.

Harry shoots the array of potions on the bedside table a glance. Perhaps they are indeed not enough. They said Sirius needed light, but light comes in many forms. Or at least that is what he thinks Hermione was trying to say.

Biting his lip, Harry edges closer. Sirius' chest barely rises with his inhales. What if he does not want this? Does not want Harry?

But what if Harry is out of options?

He carefully folds a corner of the heavy blanket aside. When nothing happens he pushes on, this time lifting it away enough to gauge the space between his godfather's thin frame and the edge of the bed. If he lies down on his side… He will still be needing to press rather close to Sirius. Then again, is this not the point of this entire experiment?

So he does it. The bed dips and gives a faint creak as Harry stretches out alongside him. It is not as warm as he expected, what with his jeans and socks and shirt, for the warmth emanating from Sirius is frightfully humble. Awkwardly he drags the blanket back into place, cocooning them both. He does not dare to dislodge the pillows and he is not very comfortable but at least they are side by side.

There is only silence and stillness.

Of course.

Because if this were easy Sirius would be up and about by now.

And so, there is only one thing to do. And Sirius can complain and protest later.

Gathering up his determination, his courage and his hope, Harry moves even closer and curls an arm around his godfather's waist in an echo of that horrific morning at Hogwarts. When he dips his head just a little, he finds skin below the sleeve of Sirius' t-shirt and he presses a kiss into it. Then he does it a second time, and a third. It does not cause an earthquake or a hailstorm or a volcano to erupt somewhere, and no unicorns dance in the garden and no trolls lumber over the hill, as far as Harry can hear.

It does not even cause a shift in the air.

Yet, from out of nowhere, a single word comes to flit across Harry's mind:

 _Finally._

 **TBC**


	7. Triumph

Now we have come to the end. I hope you have liked it. Thank you for reading!

 **Chapter 7 – Triumph**

The sun is sinking and even the shabby bushes in Grimmauld Place manage to cast long shadows when Harry lands on the doorstep to number twelve in one piece. With his feet firmly back on solid stone, he takes a moment to breathe.

He did not Splinch himself. He is fine.

Except his head feels like it is going to explode and his heart and stomach have become hard, heavy things that are painful to carry around. And with his mind already all over the place, there is no logical reason for why he planned this today, none at all.

Which is a lie, of course, because the only thing he wants is to rush through this door and tell Sirius all about his day. That is how it should have been.

Before he succeeds in talking himself out of this impending visit, he raps the door with his wand. It slides open, the bolts letting him inside a world that he has come to despise. A world that does no living soul any good.

He is waiting in the shadows.

"Hey…" Sirius' smile does not quite reach his eyes as he lets Harry in. And those eyes do not burn as they once did. "How'd it go?"

"I don't know," Harry tells him, pushing past the pain that immediately begins to eat its way into him at the sight of the other man. "I did my best. I hope I get in."

Sirius backs deeper into the hallway. The gas lights are casting a mournful glow over the dust, the frayed, torn wallpaper and the old stains on the carpet. "You know they'd pay you to go to Auror training if you hadn't applied."

"I want my skills to get me in, not any money." It comes out harsher than he intended.

There is a pause during which something flicks in Sirius' eyes. He blinks it away. "You _are_ skilled. You're… the best."

Harry swallows. "Snape didn't think so. He told Dumbledore I was average." It is not that Harry is seeking conflict, it is just that talking with Sirius has become a difficult thing, somehow. It is like their words do not really match any more.

"Yeah, well… Snape had issues." Where once upon a time there would have been a wry grin accompanying that statement, there is nothing now.

Sirius is wearing faded jeans and a faded grey-blue shirt. His hair is just long enough to brush his shoulders: it falls in soft, dark waves that Harry's fingers itch to touch. But they have not touched much since The Burrow. Not since Sirius became well enough to return to Grimmauld Place.

"So…" Harry looks up at him.

"I'll just…" Sirius runs a hand over his jaw. He has not shaved and it suits him better than it should.

Harry half-turns away from him. He simply must if he intends to survive this evening for all he desires in Sirius' presence is to be closer. He wants to shout and pound at those invisible walls that surround his godfather and which keep him at such a distance.

Harry has absolutely no idea what Sirius wants.

He lets his godfather do whatever he needs to do before Flooing. It is not much, it turns out, and they leave within minutes.

Sirius tumbles out of the fireplace after him. There is a moment during which Harry fears he will lose his balance but it passes before he can act. Sirius straightens and looks around the sitting room.

There are still a few boxes in a corner and Harry's new broom is leaning against the wall beside them. He has not owned these many things in his entire life before but Mrs Weasley keeps insisting on bedclothes and cutlery and lamps.

"This is nice." Sirius turns slowly. When his gaze falls on the bright green sofa by the windows, for a brief second the ghost of his old self rises in his face. "Very Slytherin of you, Harry."

Harry looks too and a whisper of heat walks over his cheeks. "Oh, right… I… I just liked it."

"Yeah, no, it's nice," says Sirius.

 _Really?_ Harry wants to ask but refrains from doing so. He wants Sirius to like everything. This is, after all, his one remaining weapon. His last imaginable strategy.

His offer.

"Is that the Weasleys'?" Sirius indicates a mostly empty bookshelf.

"Uh, yeah… It was Charlie's actually."

Sirius gives a hum in response. Then he walks over to the sofa. It is odd seeing him here – Merlin, it is odd _being_ here, the two of them in Harry's new house. It is simply odd having a house.

Sirius lowers himself into the sofa with an exhale he cannot quite contain. Momentarily, his eyebrows knit together and Harry wants to ask if anything is wrong, if he is in pain perhaps, but he seems unable to get the words out. When Sirius looks up at him, he joins him, however.

They sit side by side, a foot or so between them. Maybe a little less. Harry places his wand on the new coffee table and laces his fingers together in his lap. He does not know where to look or what to say, and even if he did, he is not sure that any words would get past his tongue which feels like lead in his mouth.

"I…" Sirius' voice has dropped a little and there is something off about it. As if it has cracked and is now broken. He speaks very quietly. "I would not be here, if it were not for you."

There is a pause during which Harry has time to think everything and nothing.

"Harry, I would not _be_."

He slants a sideways glance at his godfather. Sirius is looking at him and his face is full of sadness and remorse and… so many more emotions that it all becomes a heady concoction. It makes his grey eyes gleam with a haunting light.

"I remember when I first escaped Azkaban," Sirius continues, still in that low voice, and this is not at all something Harry was prepared for but he is not going to say anything.

"I wanted to fight. I wanted revenge. I wanted to make up for the years I'd missed. For myself, for James and Lily… For you."

Sirius sighs, and it seems that now that he has finally begun talking he does not plan on stopping. "Then came that Christmas. While I waited for you to arrive I still wanted to fight. But once you were there I suddenly wanted… other things." He licks his pale lips and grey eyes lock with green. "I am not proud of that."

Harry swallows. A nervous flittering in his stomach is working its way upwards, towards his throat, threatening to tighten it severely. They have never talked about this before.

"When you came to me that day in the study…" Sirius shakes his head. "I should have said no." A sinking sensation passes through Harry and he is not sure he can feel the floor under his feet as Sirius presses on: "I… stole your innocence."

"Voldemort stole my innocence." It tumbles out of him, all sharp edges and jagged ends. "When I was one year old."

Sirius looks pained. "I shouldn't have–"

"I wanted it."

He _wants_ it.

Sirius drops his gaze to his knees. His profile seems sharper than normal, his shoulders are hunched. It does not matter that the sky outside is rosy like a sea of Aunt Petunia's bloody prize-winning peonies, Sirius still shrouds himself in shadow. "The worst is…" If his voice was low before it is now merely a whisper. "I can't seem to… _not_ want… to… You."

It clicks into place. It does not make it easier to speak but it does ease his breathing. Harry bites his lip, all of a sudden overcome with the possibilities. Something new turns in his stomach but this is not half as unpleasant. Still, he gives Sirius a moment to deny or to rephrase but his godfather does neither.

He edges a little closer but Sirius does not move. He only sits staring at his own knees. It takes all of Harry's willpower to only lift one hand and place it in the small space between them. His heart is thundering against his ribs and his mouth has gone quite dry.

Sirius slowly lifts his eyes to his and a thousand questions swim in the grey. Then he touches. He brings a hand to Harry's cheek and strokes his knuckles over it. His other hand finds a home in the nape of Harry's neck. Gently, gently, Sirius brushes the pad of his thumb over Harry's lower lip while holding him steady. They barely breathe.

Sirius unites them.

Harry melts into that kiss. He practically dissolves. It is soft and warm, and Sirius keeps stroking his cheek like he cannot believe that they are actually doing this, that he is allowed to. His long fingers anchor themselves in Harry's unruly hair and he angles Harry's head and opens his mouth and then their tongues are sliding together and it is _perfect_.

They pull apart long after one of Harry's hands has landed on Sirius' thigh. His godfather kisses the corners of his mouth, drawing a smile from him. Harry kisses back, not ready to let go just yet, and it causes Sirius to smile too which is even more perfect, if possible.

When it truly ends, Sirius' hand slides down his spine to a rest at the small of his back. They sit very still, not really parted. Harry can feel his own palm on the worn fabric of Sirius' jeans and his godfather's soft exhale tickles his lips.

"I was just…" Harry swallows. "Going to show you the house."

Sirius' exhale becomes the rush of a long-lost smile. He pulls back a fraction, enough for them to see each other properly. He still looks so very tired but somehow – to Harry – he has never been more beautiful. "You'll keep your Floo connected to the network?"

Harry frowns, thrown off track. "What? Uh, yeah…" He tries to collect his thoughts. "To a select few other fireplaces. The Ministry sent someone to do some spells… I don't want the entire world–"

"You'll be connected to Grimmauld Place?"

He nods. "Yeah."

Of course. Yes.

 _Yes, yes, yes, yes._

Maybe, one day, there will be no need for Grimmauld Place.

"Harry…" And there is such longing in that single word it wrenches everything from him. From them both.

Gently, Harry extricates himself from Sirius' loose embrace and gains his feet. Without words, Sirius parts his legs to allow him even closer and he runs his hands up Harry's legs, as far as he can reach, and then down again, to his knees. Softness is suddenly warring with anxiety in his face and it makes Harry hopeful, if nothing else.

"Is this…?"

Harry nods. He is not exactly sure what he is being asked but he knows what he is giving.

His godfather looks up.

So Harry pulls him up and winds his arms around his waist until they stand pressed chest to chest and the world becomes much smaller. Sirius' hands stroke down his back and he turns his head so that he can sink a kiss into Harry's neck. His breath on Harry's skin is warm and teasing and makes a shiver race over his skin. Tentatively, with more than just a hint of hesitation, Sirius' hands move over his arse. Palms flat to Harry's fancy trying-to-get-in-to-Auror-training trousers. It wakes the first frisson of something deeper within, and Harry feels himself go warm and pliant in his godfather's arms. Sirius' voice turns low again but this time for a completely different reason than anxiety.

"Do you have a bedroom?"

He does. He has two, actually, but there is only a bed in one of them. There is also a wardrobe and several more unopened boxes but this does not matter right now.

The sky is turning an impressive Gryffindor scarlet as Harry and Sirius make it across the threshold without spoiling the newest kiss. His godfather is gradually beginning to take over – finding his feet, as it were – and Harry is only glad to cede power to him. Not only because Sirius shedding his many layers of isolation and despair makes him both relieved and ecstatic, but also because he is not entirely sure how to go about this, after all. It is years ago they last stood like this and Sirius is the only person he has ever been with.

He does drop a hand to the top button of his trousers, though, as soon as they are halfway to the bed. And is taken aback when Sirius stops him.

"No…" Sirius shakes his head. His grey eyes are soft, softer than Harry expected. His hand lands on top of Harry's. "Not like that." He gently lifts away Harry's hand and places his own one there instead, palm down. Then he slides to it Harry's hip and the years blend together as he rubs a small circle into Harry's skin with his thumb, just above the waistband. "Don't rush it."

Harry swallows. A twinge of nervousness hits his chest. This was always quick, heated and hard. Now Sirius is looking much like he could just as easily fall asleep. His confusion must be showing in his face for Sirius smiles and leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Harry's lips.

"My love," he murmurs, breath sending a new wave of warmth over his skin.

-xxx-

Later – years later, maybe around Christmastime, their third Christmas without Fred (it gets easier) – when he thinks back on that evening he will smile. And Sirius will raise an eyebrow and ask him what it is that he is smiling about.

There, curled up together on the green sofa in their sitting room with their tea going cold but with a fire crackling merrily, maybe Harry tells him. Or maybe not. But it does not much matter for by his smile only Sirius can guess. They have had quite a few nights like that since then.

 **End**


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